Adversi
by Revriley
Summary: Mischievous. Claire had never really liked it when people called him 'mischievous.' Until he did. Written in response to an anon's ask/prompt on Tumblr.


The first person to ever call Claire _mischievous_ \- at least, the first person that he could recall - had been Firo's mother. He'd been five years old, and he'd been juggling her three pewter candlesticks in the Prochainezos' living room for an enraptured Firo's entertainment. She'd just returned home from work, and upon spotting him had dashed over, snatched the candlesticks out of the air and righted them upon the mantle before he could even blink.

"They were wedding gifts," she'd sighed, a faraway look in her eyes that Claire hadn't liked. Shaking her head, she'd given Claire a weary smile and said, "you're a mischievous one, aren't you?"

"No," Claire had protested, though he hadn't understood what the word meant at the time.

Two weeks later, the candlesticks were missing from the mantle.

"Ma hocked them," Firo had said, looking at him with wide eyes. "She said that 'anything's worth putting food on the table.'"

Claire had wondered, then, if it had been him juggling the candlesticks that had put the idea into Mrs. Prochainezo's mind. Years later, he would decide that the idea would have come to her even if the candlesticks had been collecting dust in some forgotten drawer. But at the age of five, the problem had weighed on his him and the guilt had taken some time to finally unstick from his heart.

* * *

Berga wouldn't stop sniping at him on the way home, despite Luck's attempts to smooth things over.

"This time you've done it," he complained. "It's after dark, and you know how our old man feels about us comin' home after dark. Makin' us come out all this way only for you to be playin' in some construction site! It's a real pain, y'know!"

Claire shoved his hands in his pockets, turned around, and stuck his tongue out at Berga as he walked backwards. "If we're going to get an earful from old man Gandor later on, d'ya really hafta give me one _now_?"

"Why, I oughta...!"

Luck reached upwards and just managed to pat Berga on the shoulder. "Take it easy, would you? It'll be worse if we get home and you and Claire are all beaten up."

"But aren't you-"

"What's done is done," Keith said, flatly.

Silence enveloped the group for a few minutes, and Claire swiped a finger under his nose and pretended he wasn't cold.

"Still..."

Claire eyed Luck out of the corner of his eye. His brother stretched his arms toward the sky and downwards, eyes forward.

"...Your habit of making mischief isn't doing the rest of us any favors."

Berga snorted on Luck's left side. " _Making mischief_? Huh? Where'd you hear _that_ one, brainiac?"

From behind Berga, Firo piped up with "yeah! Where'd ya hear _that_ one?"

Luck folded his arms defensively. "The librarian lady says it all the time...it's not _that_ strange."

"I don't get it," Claire huffed. "Mischief? Me? What's that supposed to mean?"

"You and trouble go hand in hand," Luck answered, giving him one of Those Looks. "Now hurry up; it's cold and the later we are, the worse we're going to get."

* * *

"We've got a new recruit," the ringmaster said, gleeful as he swapped gossip with a couple ex-circus members who'd stopped by to see old friends one Thursday night. He leant over his dinner of pork and beans and stage-whispered, "he's full of mischief, this one. Can't take your eyes off him. Claire! I know you're listening. Getch'erself over here."

Claire obliged, and the ringmaster slung his arm around Claire's back and hugged him close, ruffling his hair with rough abandon. "Would you believe the boy walked up to our lion and stuck his head inside its mouth, just like that? And just yesterday he'd been scampering up onto the tightrope even though we told him not to."

Claire bristled at the word _mischief_ , but was distracted when Doubs entered the tent and doffed his top hat upon catching sight of him. The hat dissipated into a flock of bats at the movement, and they reformed back into Doub's hat moments later. Claire's irritation instantly turned into delight, and the slight was forgotten.

* * *

"Would you say I'm mischievous?"

Rachel choked on her pretzel, and Felix patted her on her back once, twice, three times while the street vendor leaned around his cart in concern. Once she recovered, she managed, "why do you ask?"

"I mean, I just don't get it." Felix broke off another piece of his pretzel and popped it into his mouth as he talked. "People've called me that all my life. I musta looked up that word a hundred times in the dictionary by now, and I'm not seeing it. It's not like I have a reputation as a prankster, and it's _not_ like I'm some sort of troublemaker in the traditional sense. So what gives?"

"Uh."

Rachel's gaze went skyward, and Felix demolished another third of the pretzel while she mulled it over.

"I can see why people...may have gotten that impression from you."

"Aw, really?" Felix met her gaze dead-on, and beads of sweat formed on her forehead. "But I don't want to be known as a mischief maker; in fact, I think one could argue that I can be a real stickler for rules sometimes. Wouldn't you?"

Rachel winced, and accidentally crushed the rest of her pretzel between her hands.

"That's true...but you know, wherever you go there's always _something_ brewing. And it's usually trouble. You may not be much of a prankster - at least, from what I know of you, but whenever there's a storm, you're often the eye of it. Am I making any sense?"

"Not from where I'm standing," Felix replied, through his last mouthful of food. "I guess it doesn't really matter in the long run, but it really gets on my nerves when people say stuff about me that undermines what I am."

Rachel hummed, and brushed crumbs off her hands. " _Does_ it undermine you?"

Felix blinked.

"Well, does it? I wouldn't say that calling you mischievous sells you short. So maybe you're not a prankster at heart, and maybe you don't _intend_ to cause whatever you're defining as 'trouble.' But honestly? Trouble is your middle name, and you'd better believe you cause it. So you're not _mischievous_ , but you do _make mischief_ , and that's all I want to say on the matter."

" _Want_ to-?" Felix paused, shrugged, and then grinned. "You know what? That suits me just fine. That's something I can live with. Anyway, I gotta split, have a little rendezvous with some Runoratas that can't wait. Thanks a ton for the talk, Rachel, it took a load off my mind."

"Don't mention it." She offered him a small smile. "Just a thought, but I think it might be right to say you're about to go _make some mischief_ with the Runoratas. ...Wouldn't you?"

"...Yeah! That's exactly it." Felix's grin grew wider, and he clapped his hands together with satisfaction. "I'm gonna go and make some mischief. If you'd like, I'll tell you all about it later over a shake or somethin'."

"Oh," said Rachel, "I _would_."

* * *

"Be _vewy vewy_ quiet," Felix whispered to his wife, doing his best Elmer Fudd impression. "We're hunting _Fiwos_."

Chané cocked her head, and disappeared back into the kitchen. Their grandson giggled in Felix's arms, and then clapped both his hands to his mouth at the slip.

Felix winked at him, shuffling down the house's main hallway without making a sound. As they passed the mirror on the right wall, he caught glimpses of their appearance - flashes of grey hair, his grandson's brown corduroys, nothing eye-catching. His grandson wriggled in anticipation in his arms, and Felix shushed him gently just before they rounded the corner into the living room.

Firo stood in the center of the room with his back to them, talking to the boy's father about the latest baseball game. Felix's son's eyes widened at the sight of them, but he acted like nothing was the matter. _Good kid_. Of course, Felix had once done the very same thing with him that he was now doing with his grandson.

Once he was a good yard away from Firo, Felix stopped, and his grandson readjusted himself in his hands so that he was positioned the way they'd practiced back three days straight earlier that week. He looked up at Felix, and nodded, beaming. Felix stifled a laugh, mouthed _one, two, three_ and then _flung_ his grandson into the air –

\- and his grandson latched onto Firo's shoulders, shrieking as soon as he made contact with his uncle. Firo yelped loudly in return, staggering forward and nearly toppling into the boy's father.

When the chaos settled down, Firo held Felix's grandson high up into the air and contemplated him from a distance. "You really got me there, kiddo," he said, and shot a glare over at Felix, doubled over with laughter next to his son. "Nearly gave me a heart attack."

"His _face_ ," Felix's son wheezed. "You should have seen his _face_ , dad."

"I've seen it before. Trust me." Felix wiped a tear away from his eye, and reclaimed his grandson from Firo. "Gold star, ya little gremlin. Couldn't have done it better myself."

"Honestly, you two." His daughter-in-law poked her head through the archway leading to the dining room, laughter in her voice. "Always up to some mischief! My mother would have a fit if she knew what you were doing with her grandson."

"Well, he's my grandson too so she'll just have to get used to it," Felix shrugged. He tossed his grandson up into the air once, and then handed him back to Firo. "Now, why don'tcha go show Uncle Firo your latest comic, huh? He was on the phone just the other day telling me how much he wanted to read it."

"You were?" Felix's grandson turned shining eyes onto his 'uncle', and Firo smiled at him.

"I sure was. You mind showing me?"

"Yeah! Let's go, uncle Firo!" The boy hopped down from Firo's arms, and darted out of the living room and around the corner. Firo followed more slowly, giving Felix one last arch look before disappearing around the corner moments later.

Once Firo left, Felix addressed his daughter-in-law. "Mischief makers, huh? I don't know if I should resent that or not."

His daughter-in-law emerged from the dining room and placed her hands on her hips. "What, you don't think you're mischievous? I could write a whole dissertation on why you're wrong."

"I-" Felix stopped, and rubbed at his jaw. "Actually...these days, I guess I am pretty mischievous. You got me there." He paused again. "Well, I guess it's more that I actually _like_ being called 'mischievous' now. For the first time in my life, I think it suits me."

He cupped his hands around his mouth, and called out to the author - whom he'd noticed was writing down certain events in his life for posterity's sake a while back but had refrained from commenting on her existence. (Felix noted that he wanted her to know he thought it was a grand idea she'd had, for of course the world was his and people ought to know that even their creator had insecurities).

"Wouldn't you?"


End file.
